


Particular Properties

by o2doko



Category: Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-02-13
Updated: 2011-02-13
Packaged: 2017-10-15 15:19:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,331
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/162173
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/o2doko/pseuds/o2doko
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Originally written for the 2010 Sherlock Holmes Kink Meme on LJ (prompt request: dom!Watson, Watson draws on his military career)  Sherlock Holmes is an eminently practical being, even in his excesses; luckily for him, though, John Watson isn't.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Particular Properties

Holmes often criticizes me on my inability to keep these accounts strictly factual and analytical. He has argued that the excess of feeling and personality which I lend to my narratives somehow detracts from their content, but while I say nothing to him directly I have always privately disagreed. Sherlock Holmes has his cases; my case, however, has always been Sherlock Holmes. When one’s primary focus is the man himself, one cannot help but be caught up in the humanity of what he does.

It is with that thought in mind that I now disregard my initial misgivings about putting pen to paper on this present account. I have always striven to be honest and forthright in these chronicles, and in that spirit I must continue now. What follows has nothing to do with Holmes’ investigations, it is true, but it has everything to do with mine.

It began on the 27th of July. The afternoon was balmy and hot, but otherwise unremarkable. Holmes was at work in his study, where he could usually be found when he was in-between cases, and I was resting in my own rooms. Thus far, it had been a quiet month. Though we lived together, I had seen little of my companion of late; he joined me for breakfast when the mood suited him, which it had with increasingly less frequency as July progressed towards August. This wasn’t entirely unusual. He’d warned me of his volatile mood swings when we’d first agreed to share rooms on Baker Street, and I had occasion enough to witness the peculiar phenomenon myself in the past. And yet, for some unknown reason, that particular afternoon saw me anxious and dissatisfied with the current arrangement of things.

Despite my careful notation of particulars within the pages of my notebook, I confess I often found it too easy to disregard the date. Between the excitement of our adventures and the almost hazy lethargy that languished between them, time had a way of becoming a fairly elusive construct. Holmes was certainly infamous for running on his own time. He performed his experiments, played his violin, and commenced in the comings and goings of his own particular quests with a complete and almost cavalier disregard for the ponderous hands of his mantelpiece clock, and I confess that, as my life readjusted its orbit around his particularly bright star, so did I. I sometimes wonder if Holmes regarded time as merely another puzzle to be conquered. For myself, who had once governed all actions to the strict order and routine of a military regime, it had simply become inconsequential.

Not this date, though. How peculiar is the human mind! This singular day, which I would gladly relinquish awareness of above all others, has never escaped me in its passing. It had remained with me throughout the years with a remarkable tenacity, almost as if it had been branded on the bullet which pierced my shoulder that day. I hadn’t slept a minute of the preceding evening because of it; the book held between my hands had offered up to me the contents of page forty-two for the past handful of hours, disregarded. I was never quite myself on the 27th of July, and I can only offer that by way of explanation for the events which followed.

The sun-gold shadows of my room’s solitary window had crept halfway across the floor; that’s the best approximation I can give as to the hour. I was sitting up in bed, the neglected book still in my lap, when I gradually became aware of the faint, subtle sound of Holmes’ violin. I confess that I often took a great deal of comfort and pleasure from his playing. He is, after all, a brilliant musician, and I have been known to change rooms for the sole purpose of bringing myself closer to the soft, extraordinary melodies he produces. That afternoon I did not stir from bed, but I found myself straining to listen nonetheless, with all the delighted surprise of a child. And yet, something was off about the music. It was undoubtedly Holmes playing, and yet the sound possessed a most peculiar quality – or perhaps it is best to say it lacked one. I, who knew all his moods and peculiarities, was no stranger to this as well. I knew exactly what it meant. And on any other day, I would have simply ignored it and returned to my book. But this was not any other day.

I admit that I was primarily motivated by anger as I tossed my reading aside and rose to put on my dressing gown. I knew, even then, that the anger was irrational – and yet I cannot help but feel that that is exactly why I indulged in it. I admired Holmes’ almost ruthless insistence on the rational, but I had considerably less patience for his expectation of it in others. In me.

I did not bother to knock; he had not bothered to lock the door. He looked up as I entered the room without ceasing to play, his eyes holding all the regard for my presence that they would have had for a houseplant or an armchair. He registered my arrival, sure enough; even in that peculiar state, he missed nothing. And yet somehow, he did not seem to be _aware_. I have had cause to observe in my dealings with him that there are many sorts of emptiness, and that they have a manner of stealing into his otherwise animated expression at various times. I have studied them, catalogued them, even loved some of them for all they represent. But this wretched blankness was something else entirely, and I loathed it, then as now.

“I wish you’d stop,” I commented abruptly, at a loss for how else to begin. Confronting my friend was not a matter I was exceedingly well-versed in. One must take into account the terrible conundrum I faced, the curious conflict between physician and devotee; trust Holmes’ incomparable judgment, or just my own?

He blinked once, languidly, as though registering my presence in the room for the first time, and though he arched an inquisitive eyebrow his mechanical motions over the somber instrument ceased. “Am I disturbing you, my dear Watson?” he asked quietly. I have had occasion in the past to describe this mood as ‘dreamy’, but that’s not quite right; it lacks all things, even the surreal emotion of dreaming.

Perhaps it is absurd, but I have always disliked that phrase of his – ‘my dear Watson.’ Impersonal affection is something I am convinced only Sherlock Holmes could master.

I did not immediately respond to his question, looking instead around the room for the other instrument. No less beautiful in his long, elegant hands, used with no less skill and finesse. Its case perched on the circular table at his elbow, as expected. He followed my gaze there, but did not address it as he leaned back and rested his violin in his lap.

“You haven’t slept,” he observed absently instead. “I apologize if my activities have disturbed your rest. I know the end of this month is a particularly trying time for you.”

Of course he knew. It was hardly a difficult matter to observe. And yet I was aware that he did not know why – did not know, because it had never occurred to him to ask. Our relationship was a matter of the present, after all; by some unspoken agreement, we had mutually consented to leave the past well enough alone. Yet in that moment, I felt frustration for his apparent indifference. Overwhelming. Irrational.

But my mind was set on confrontation, and so I attempted to remain focused on the matter at hand. “You are above this,” I informed him coolly, gesturing towards the little wooden case. I was striving to maintain a professional degree of calm, but I could feel the anger there, lurking uncomfortably close to the surface. “You are the less for your use of this vile substance. Surely the temporary euphoria is a poor price for what it will eventually do to your brain?”

His long fingers had begun to tap restlessly against the bow of his violin. He was studying me keenly now, though his sharp eyes were still eerily empty. “You are speaking from clinical inference,” he mused finally. “An admirable approach to any problem, I grant you, but one that may be lacking here. You have not yet sampled the drug yourself, and so are unaware of its particular properties. I have offered to illuminate this dark corner for you in the past; would you care to sample it now?”

“’Unaware of its particular properties’?” I echoed, and that was it – I could feel the anger overriding my poor attempt at professional detachment. “Correct me if I am quite mistaken, Holmes, but I believe the symptoms of cocaine use are as follows: increased alertness, feelings of well-being and euphoria, energy and motor activity, feelings of competence and sexuality. Athletic performance may be enhanced. Anxiety, paranoia and restlessness are also frequent. With excessive dosage, tremors, convulsions, and increased body temperature are observed. Side-effects of excessive or prolonged use include itching, tachycardia, hallucinations, and paranoid delusions. Overdoses cause tachyarrhthmias and a marked elevation of blood pressure. Is this correct?”

He had listened patiently to my recitation, a small, condescending smile toying about the edges of his mouth – the same expression he frequently wore after giving me a logistical problem to wrestle over, one that he had, of course, already solved himself. “Correct on all accounts,” he affirmed, waving one hand carelessly. “Though I need hardly remind you that reading over a matter in a book and experiencing it first hand are not quite the same thing.”

“Holmes,” I ground out in frustration, “You are aware that I suffer from delicate health conditions, considerably improved since our first encounter but nevertheless chronically persistent. Are you aware of the cause of these maladies?”

The question seemed to catch him off-guard, as personal matters often did. “Why, from injuries sustained abroad, I should assume,” he offered. “You still favor your shoulder, particularly when it rains, which is also when your limp becomes more noticeably pronounced. You were sent home to recover, where you not?”

“Field doctors are more than adept at patching bullet holes, Holmes. I was an army surgeon. A stiff shoulder and a slightly game leg are hardly sufficient to keep me from my work, or even prevent me from holding a gun. It was not the wounds that discharged me from the service.” He must have had his own theories on this – he always did – but I believe he had begun to pick up on my peculiar tone, for he remained silent. “While recovering at Peshawar, I contracted enteric fever. Are you aware of its symptoms?”

“I am,” he responded indifferently, but that was all.

“Some of the symptoms of enteric fever,” I pressed on regardless, “include fluctuating moods, hallucinations, nosebleeds, lethargy, and muscle weakness. I trust that some of this sounds familiar to you? For weeks after, I was administered fluids intravenously.” My gaze flickered pointedly towards the case once more.

“The two are hardly comparable,” he objected, looking amused. “You must take into consideration, my dear Wa-“

“No, they are not the same at all,” I broke in harshly. Even then I was somewhat astonished at my own behavior, though far less surprised than he. “I went to India in the service of my country. I was injured in that service by a hostile and only escaped the massacre at Maiwand through the loyalty of a friend and the bravery of resolute and desperate men. I was crippled and rendered _useless_ by a disease – one that I did not look for, and one that I did not contract through my own negligent carelessness. _You_ , on the other hand –“ I stopped abruptly, suddenly made aware of the increased volume of my voice through the startled look on my companion’s face. Through all our dangers and all my doubts, I had never once shouted at him as I was doing now.

In that moment, I was shaken in my prior conviction and probably would have been content to let the matter rest at that. A hasty apology, a quick retreat, and a healthy shot of brandy to still my shaken nerves – then all would be well and back to normal. All that was required of Sherlock Holmes to extricate us both from this terse situation was one single, wise moment of silence.

Unfortunately, silence is the one gift he does not possess.

“Now see here,” he broke in irritably, tapping the bow against his thigh. “You cannot attempt to degrade my behavior by hiding behind some professed form of ‘noble sacrifice.’ Surely you see how ludicrous the whole matter is? Observe the situation on a merely factual level, and I think you will be forced to agree that the chain of events leading to our shared symptoms is really quite the same, though the cause of said symptoms differs. Consider: I choose to inject cocaine into my body fully aware of the consequences of such actions, and therefore am unsurprised when met with these symptomatic results. Just as you _chose_ to enlist in the army and travel abroad, knowing full well the odds of being wounded in battle and contracting a disease were –“

“ _Sherlock_ ,” I interrupted for the second time, frustrated almost to the point of madness, “ _I cannot consider the situation on a merely factual level._ ”

I saw clearly, in his brief display of startled confusion, that I would never be able to explain it to him. He did not share the past with me out of a sense of delicacy or a disregard for my person, but rather because it was beyond his comprehension to understand. What did a man like Sherlock Holmes know about national sacrifice – about causes greater than himself? What could he possibly care about the screaming of horses, the hatred discernable even in foreign tongues, the burn of powder, the smell of blood? Some combination of cocaine and his own restless imagination might keep him awake long hours of the night, but he would never know what it was like to close his eyes and see only the faces of dead friends and comrades … people he’d failed through some weakness of his own.

Holmes helped people, but he did not care about them. He solved the case, and satisfied his own egotistical needs for stimulus and self-gratification; then he safely put the matter behind him and moved on without looking back.

What a terrible thing it is, to love one’s idol! Adoration is blind, and can afford to be. Love is often blind, too, and yet such ignorance comes at a much higher cost.

“I do not ask nor expect you to understand,” I said quietly. He seemed more wary of this sudden appearance of calm than he had been of my brief flare of temper – and, so it would turn out, with good cause. “But I will not – I _cannot_ \- allow you to destroy yourself over something so base and inconsequential.” I could not add what I thought after; that allowing him to destroy himself would also result in my own destruction. It was love, but it was not selfless; my actions that night were as much for my own preservation as they were for his.

“I hardly see how you can force me to do – or not do – anything,” he pointed out defiantly, subtly gathering himself together as though he expected me to strike him. I admit that I had not considered such an extreme action before, but I found myself debating it then.

“I cannot keep your from stabbing a needle into your arm,” I agreed coolly, rolling back the sleeves of my dressing gown with a methodical precision that would later astonish me in recollection. “But perhaps I can make you understand what it is you’ll lose if you decide not to keep yourself from doing it.” I was hardly aware, even then, of what such actions I might take. All I knew was that I needed to threaten him with the loss of the one thing he held more dear than all else in the world. And in the cold clear-sightedness of anger, I realized then that what Sherlock Holmes most cared about was himself.

I had taken a prisoner once, during my desperate flight with my orderly back into British occupied territory. Weak and wounded as we’d been, he would have easily overpowered us had I not threatened the destruction of a small religious object he carried about his person. The price of the object’s safety had been his cooperation. I could tell by the circumference of Holmes’ pupils that the effects of the cocaine were starting to wan. He would be limp as a rag soon, and easily overpowered. Still, my previous experiences in the matter seemed a sound enough place to start.

In his wariness of me, he had laid aside his violin in order to free his hands. I took advantage of that fact now to snatch the instrument into my own possession, meeting his uneasy eyes with a triumphant look of my own. “What are you doing?” he demanded suspiciously, half-rising from his seat. I frowned at him warningly to still his actions.

“You have been quite generous in your tutelage of me these long years, detective,” I explained coolly, tucking the violin beneath one arm and holding the bow in my hands. “I have decided that now it is time to educate you on a matter concerning my own training. If you would please oblige me by going into the other room and having a seat on the bed?”

“And if I refuse?” he challenged, though his gaze had dropped anxiously to the bow in my hands. I said nothing, only bent the device experimentally in a tense arc, at an angle the wood was hardly able to sustain. He sucked in a startled breath that, in the moment, I found highly satisfying; I had not made a mistake in assuming this particular instrument was dear to him. “ _John_ ,” he hissed, clutching at the armrests of his chair. Had it been a plea, I might have reconsidered my course of action right then and there. But Sherlock Holmes did not beg; it was a _command_.

“It appears to me, Holmes, that you fail to fully grasp the situation. I shall repeat, and only once: go into the other room and have a seat on the bed.”

He seemed to consider a moment, head cocked thoughtfully to the side. A flash of something at last entered his eyes, and I confess my heart leapt at it – that sign of his old, beloved arrogance. It made me more determined, not less, that I should never see that dreadfully blank, drugged stare of his again. And it was a good thing that I felt my resolve heightened, for in that moment of defiance he sat back in his chair again, crossing his long legs and folding his hands in his lap.

“No,” he announced, clear and calm, with a smile that cut like a razorblade.

The smile vanished an instant later when I snapped the bow in two.

Sherlock Holmes made a peculiar sound that I had never heard before, a sort of sharp, strangled cry of pain that died off before it could fully form in his throat. Anger flashed white-hot and deadly across his face, and I only managed to keep him in his seat by pulling the violin from beneath my arm.

“I trust now that you see I am quite in earnest,” I said softly, wrapping one hand around the violin’s slender neck. I was entirely prepared to break it, as I had the bow. I would rather see the violin in a thousand pieces than hear him play upon it with such mechanical, soulless skill again. “Do as I say, or I swear to you, I will do worse to the violin.”

I could almost hear his mind racing, pushing frantically against the lethargy of the drug’s withdrawal. That was bad; the longer he had to think the matter over, the more likely it was he would escape it somehow. I raked my fingernails across the tense strings warningly, and that at last seemed to do the trick.

“Alright, John – alright,” he said at last, his voice now as soft as mine. Showing me his palms in a supplicating gesture he rose with affected meekness and turned to make for his bedroom. I followed close behind him, keeping the instrument in hand as assurance. I scarcely dared to take my eyes off of him, lest he contrive a means of escape; only once did I hastily glance away, and that was to grab the handcuffs he left sitting on the mantel.

My fears appeared to be in vain; for the moment, at least, he was apparently willing to comply with my demands. He crawled up onto the nest of unmade blankets without hesitation or protest, obeying my subsequent orders to turn and brace his back against the headboard. “Reach up and wrap your fingers around the top pole,” I commanded, “both of them.” He did so, and I triumphantly looped the cuffs through the bar, snapping the bracelets around his wrists. I did not know where he kept the key, but that was hardly a concern for the moment. The more pressing issue at present was what to do with him, now that I had him helpless before me.

“You really didn’t think this all the way through, did you?” he snorted, his shrewd eyes easily reading my thoughts. I pressed the heel of my hand over the violin’s strings in response, and his mouth closed with an audible snap. He was right, though; I _hadn’t_ thought this through. I had wanted a confrontation and now I had one – but I was as much at a loss over what to do with it as I had been before I had even entered his sitting room.

Staring down at him in vague bewilderment at our predicament, I couldn’t help but observe the way the late afternoon sun slanted across his pale skin. There were threads of amber in his green eyes; why hadn’t I noticed that before? “Why must you do it, Holmes?” I asked softly, hardly aware that I was speaking aloud. “You have been blessed with so much perfection, so much beauty – such _potential_. Must you mar yourself in this disgusting way?” He made no response, but I could sense him watching me in a manner subtly different from before. Somehow, I could feel his curiosity straining against the air between us, and I gently laid the violin aside, knowing that the threat of its destruction was no longer necessary. I had him by a much stronger hook now.

“You’re feverish,” I continued haltingly, strangely unnerved by the alternating bars of shadow and light crossing his hawk-like face. “Effect of the cocaine, no doubt. I could feel your pulse racing when I chained your wrist. … I remember what that was like. The fever. The sensation of burning, the unquenchable thirst …” I shuddered.

“Yes; I know that feeling well,” he said quietly. The sound of his voice helped me focus again.

“If it is these side-effects you seek, there are other ways of producing them,” I pointed out firmly, “ _healthy_ ways. Euphoria, warmth, adrenaline … there are other methods of securing such things aside from recreational drugs and draining your blood at the boxing ring. I know you find these sensations in your work, and that without your work you are forced to resort to other measures, but … there are healthier ways. Ways that do not endanger your considerable strength and intellect.”

He tilted his head to the side again, pinioning me with his glittering eyes. He so often reminded me of a bird. “Are you about to show me one of those methods now?” he asked calmly, though his eyebrow raised in a gesture expressly calculated to make me blush.

I swear, nothing had been further from my mind. For God’s sake, I had been about to suggest bloody _tennis_ , or archery. But his barely veiled suggestion made me all-too aware of our compromising situation, of the physical proximity between us as I crouched over him on the bed. As I have said, I was not in my right mind that afternoon … and he was so achingly, perfectly beautiful.

And, for perhaps the only time ever, completely at my mercy.

“You promised me an education into an area beyond my usual scope,” he reminded me slyly, pressing forward against my hesitation. I realized then what he was trying to do: embarrass me, throw me off my guard. Regain his freedom through my horrified efforts to assure him such was not the case.

“I did,” I agreed, sliding closer.

He tensed, but to his credit he did not look in the least bit afraid – which brought me into sharp awareness of something I had never truly considered before. He _trusted_ me. The great Sherlock Holmes, who professed to need and desire no human contact, had more than once willingly put his life, his career, and his reputation into my bungling hands.

The hands that had just snapped his violin bow; the hands now fisted into the sheets on either side of his hips.

“… if you want me to,” I added hoarsely.

“Show me,” he responded without hesitation, and this time it was a plea. Or near enough.

I could restrain myself no longer. My God, I _must_ have been out of my mind – for a moment later I was leaning forward and kissing him, hard enough that I heard his skull connect with the wrought-iron bars behind him. He did not complain; he kissed me back.

Even in my sudden, overwhelming haze of lust, however, I sensed something off in his efforts. The kiss was enthusiastic, but sloppy. It lacked the skill, precision, and finesse he put into every action he’d ever undertaken … almost as though he had never attempted the task before. That was absurd; surely he had been _kissed_. I could think of one or two women of our own acquaintance who would have been game for a go, if they had not attempted to do so already. But could it be possible that we were otherwise embarking on truly uncharted territory?

The thought startled me so badly that I pulled away, staring down at him in surprise and consideration. He read my thoughts easily, as he always did, and smiled – amused, but not in the slightest bit embarrassed. “I am afraid my enthusiasm for certain fields has left me notably lacking in others,” he agreed, calm if a little short of breath. “As we have already established here, Watson, I am the pupil today … and you are the master.”

Something about the manner in which he said ‘master’ made it quite difficult to breathe.

I am ashamed to admit, it absolutely went to my head. “Yes,” I agreed, readjusting my position slightly so that I was able to straddle his hips. “… And you must do everything I say, exactly as I instruct you to, without protest. Those are the conditions of my education.”

“Yes, master,” he agreed coyly – goddamn him, the man misses nothing.

“You will not speak unless granted express permission,” I announced sharply, as a precaution. It was little secret that the man could talk circles around the best orator in Europe, and were I to have any control in this situation it would be imperative that he not utter a syllable. He was obediently silent, simply gazing up at me with patient, inquisitive eyes.

I took a deep breath and attempted to order my scattered thoughts.

“Open your mouth,” I instructed after a slight pause, pleased that I sounded every bit as authoritative as I did not feel. He complied instantly, much to my pleasure, and I leaned forward to reengage our kiss. It was slower this time, though I could scarcely contain my hunger. My desire to patiently explore every angle, every curve of him warred fiercely with an irrational urge to swallow him whole. I heard the metal of the handcuffs scrape against the iron headboard as he dug his fingers into the chain links, a gesture I hoped signified pleasure. I briefly considered freeing his wrists then, but I knew from too many observations that his hands were every bit as dangerous as his cunning tongue.

Gradually I released his mouth to kiss his strong jaw. “Tilt your head,” I commanded huskily, and he obeyed, granting me ample access to his Adam’s apple and the delicate, paper-thin skin above his fluttering pulse point. “Warmth; accelerated heart beat,” I whispered against his damp skin. “Now, is this not a better way to achieve such ends?” I had ordered silence, and so he merely sighed, though that ghostly exhalation was enough to fuel my hunger for him. My fingers moved to the buttons of his shirt, steady and sure. Hands that marked this day with memories of gunpowder and sweat-slick metal now traced his bone pale skin and memorized the mysterious brail of old, subtle scars.

His soft sighs of pleasure gave me courage, confidence, a sense of control that I had not felt in years. I had embarked upon this mission as a means of humbling him, of coming to terms with his humanity and his flaws – but each sweep of my tongue across his flushed skin was a renewed act of worship. He was cold, egotistical, reckless and possibly insane; but even in my moment of dominance I wanted nothing more than to bring him pleasure, and keep him safe. I was his in all the ways he would never be mine, but as I raked my teeth across the sensitive underside of his swollen member, that didn’t seem to matter any more. He cried out and I bit down lightly, a pleasurable punishment – but there was reward enough for us both when he finally bucked upward against his restraints, moaning my name.

I was already blissfully close to the edge when I pushed myself up on my knees and pulled him closer, as moved as always by the sound of his beloved voice. I whispered ragged commands and encouragement (your teeth, your tongue, suck a little harder, _God_ , yes, _there_ -) and he followed orders to the letter, up until the point when I instructed him to pull away so as not to choke on my final release. He swallowed every last bit of it instead, and smiled up at me like the Cheshire Cat when I collapsed against him.

“Permission to speak?” he whispered against my sweat-damp temple as we lay tangled together in the dark.

“Denied,” I murmured with a little smile, pressing a kiss to his shoulder before dropping off to sleep – where I remained the entire night, disturbed by not a single nightmare. It was enough for me.

 

… Though not enough, apparently, for Holmes. I woke up to the sound of the second metal bracelet clicking shut above my head, and the sight of a very energetic detective settling himself in my lap. “Good morning,” he greeted cheerfully. “I have been reviewing my chapter notes all night, and I believe I am quite ready for my test now. I thought we might start with the _oral_ exam, if that is perfectly agreeable with you?”

I groaned, and then laughed, and then I asked him just how he had contrived to free himself.

“Elementary, my dear Watson,” he winked, leaning in for a kiss that was quite polished and expert. Though I would never admit this to him, I barely noticed; I was still thinking about how indifferent he _hadn’t_ sounded when he said my name.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading!
> 
> I'm currently accepting commissions; see my [gig page](http://fiverr.com/users/o2doko/gigs/write-an-original-5000-word-story-in-any-genre) for more information.


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